


⫄●deathmatch○⫃

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Absurdism, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Forced Prize Fight, Gen, Identity, Mental Health Issues, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23712943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm is forced to fight an unlikely opponent to the death.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Forced Prize Fight.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	⫄●deathmatch○⫃

**Author's Note:**

> we were randomly talking about absurdism on the whump server the other day, so it was bouncing in my head ty friends <3

“Two men will enter, only one will win,” the announcer’s voice booms in the distance, echoing through the venue.

It’s not an octagon or square, but a rectangle. Red walls, concrete floor, high windows where spectators can peer in from outside. Instead of a mat, there’s a Persian rug waiting for their battle to the death.

“In the red corner, at 5’7”, 150 pounds — “ The announcer winds up. “ — _Malcolm Bright!_ “

The crowd cheers as he begrudgingly steps onto his corner of the rug, forced into this deathmatch by the man who waits outside the door.

In the lull between announcements, the crowd chatters about how his weight can’t possibly be 150 pounds, tossing “he’s muscle-y,” returning “he only eats licorice and sparkling water,” and rebuffing “he exercises real hard every day” among the many comments that whizz in the distance. He’d rather be back in his kitchen doing yoga and eating with Sunshine than dealing with this shit.

If he hadn’t been born a Whitly, he wouldn’t have to put up with his father’s sphere of antics. It brings misdirected casualties out of the woodwork.

“In the black corner — “ The crowd thankfully quiets again. “At 5’7”, 150 pounds — “ The announcer’s windup has equal zeal as the last time. “ — _Malcolm Whitly!_ “

The man steps onto his corner of the rug, shining in the spotlight. Malcolm’s stock still at what he sees, eyes blown in shock that this is even possible.

He’s staring at a carbon copy of himself.

What kind of research are they letting Dr. Whitly do in this hospital?

Malcolm shakes his head several times — he must be dreaming. Tries to step off the rug, but his feet are glued.

“Gentlemen, tap gloves,” the announcer directs.

Malcolm looks at his hands to find red gloves snug on them. He walks to the center of the rug and completes the task as requested, tapping a black set on the other man’s hands. _On your hands_. On his hands.

The two men step back from each other, matching mouthguards peeking between their lips.

“The terms are simple,” the announcer explains. “Any combat style is allowed until one of you is dead. You must stay on the rug. Audience — no crossing the red line. Gentlemen — gloves up.”

A bell rings several times, clanging off the bookshelf, the glass door, the reverberation enough to move the rolling chair from the desk. Bright freezes, full of training, but not knowing what to do in the moment faced with his pseudonym.

Whitly charges him and clocks him with a cross between the eyes, leather thumping off his forehead. Bright doesn’t defend, just watches his vision fuzz and return.

So this is really happening.

Swell.

Whitly swings again, but Bright blocks and counters a quick one-two body-head combo that does —

Nothing.

Whitly wails at him with a rapid roll of straight punches that Bright just takes in the face and stomach, his nose starting to drip red down his face. His eye sockets are swollen enough that the tops of his cheeks puff into his vision.

“Didya bring the dummy in the ring?” Dr. Whitly needles, his voice cutting through all the spectators.

Bright tastes coppery blood flowing into his mouthguard, adding an extra slosh to the springy plastic. He tries to breathe in, but it’s harder to accomplish between his nose draining and his mouth being occupied. It faintly resembles suffocating in his own fluids.

Another punch pops him on the cheek. “Come on, boy!” Dr. Whitly growls, and Bright’s head snaps to attention.

Caught up in railing his opponent with punches, Whitly doesn’t defend himself when Bright starts swinging back. A hook and a spinning backfist send Whitly teetering toward his side of the rug.

“Think you’re somethin’, huh?” Whitly taunts around the mouthguard, blue eyes piercing under the lights. “You’re _nothing_ without him.”

Bright launches a push kick that forces Whitly to the edge of the rug. Miraculously, he’s still standing. Bright lunges to knock him into submission —

But an invisible wall holds Whitly up — Bright can’t pummel him any further. Seems the rule to stay on the rug is pretty firm.

With an orange slice grin, Whitly whips a knee into Bright’s abs, whooshing away his breath. Uses the space to uppercut his chin, pound and whip his neck. Light-footed dance brings them back to the middle, on even playing field again, yet more spent in rapid pants.

Bright’s opponent doesn’t appear to tire at all. Is Whitly bionic? A science experiment gone wrong? _He’s perfect._ He’s broken. _No, you._

Whitly seems to know everything about him, as if every punch or kick he tries is telegraphed. A forearm or shin is always there to catch his attempts, forcing him to reset. Breaths heave through his chest at the exertion — there’s no rounds in the deathmatch.

“Put some pizazz in it, my boy. I _love_ a good show,” Dr. Whitly cheers from the other side of the door.

Pop and kick and lunge and sweep they bash each other’s bodies. Gloves slip and beam under sweat’s sheen, leave their skin stained sopping bloody.

“Let’s make this a lightning round,” the announcer’s voice resounds. The crowd’s glee at upping the ante paints the stands and washes down.

The fluorescent lights swing from high, adding more distraction for the two men. Now, if they’re still, they’ll get beaned with a light fixture. Difficulty — harder.

“You _trained_ for this!” Dr. Whitly’s voice coaches from a distance.

To fight his fucking clone? _It’s you_. No it’s not. _You’re him_.

Metal frame wallops the side of Bright’s face, cutting him from jaw to eye. What was blood in spots and drips turns into a river flowing wide, marring his white gi.

He had a gi?

Bright looks across the rug where Whitly had avoided the light. His gi is solid black.

Black gi, black gloves — dead, dead, dead.

White gi, red gloves — dad, dad, dad.

Smelling fresh blood, Whitly charges at him, hurling all his weight behind his hits. Thwack after thunk, Bright’s face splits and cracks under the assault, the stitches bleeding out of the baseball and running red all over his gi.

“Weakling,” Whitly insults, battering his face.

A hearty swing back and a roaring smack throws Bright to the rug. Strike after strike he’s losing the fight — Whitly’s nearly won.

The world dims to black gloves unleashing their best attack. All that’s left is the announcer’s breath judging the doomed contest.

“And Whitly swings another, and another,” Dr. Whitly’s voice gives the play by play. His father announces his last breath, a smug smile upon his face. Through the door’s glass Bright sees him give the final chant that enlivens the stands, “Whitly takes the title!”

His eyes and ears haven’t given out yet, although he’s tipped to death. The cheers and jeers fall as white noise high up in the stands.

“I guess you’re not like me,” Dr. Whitly gives his regrets. “I’m the winner.”

Black — Bright ends.

Light, the morning comes with a yell and spit swooshing in Malcolm’s mouthguard. His tongue catapults it across the bed. He frees his hands from his restraints’ hold and scurries to the bathroom.

He hits the porcelain sink with the side of his fist. Fuck, the nightmares aren’t getting any better.

Water gushing so he can wash his face, he looks into the mirror to Malcolm Whitly looking back.

5’7”, 150 pounds of —

existence.

Isn’t it?

“My boy’s a winner,” he hears over his shoulder.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
